| One, two, I'm 'bout to set this off, like this | |
| Hip-hoppers, check it | |
| Another MC lose his life tonight, Lord | |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? | |
| Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, whoa | |
| I haunt MC's like Mephistopheles, bringin' swords of Damocles | |
| Secret Service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy | |
| Abstract raps simple with a street format | |
| Gaze into the sky and measure planets by parallax | |
| Check out the retrograde motion, kill the notion | |
| Of bitin' and recyclin' and callin' it your own creation | |
| I feel like Rockwell, 'Somebody's watching me' | |
| I got no privacy whether on land or at sea | |
| And for you bitin' zealots, your raps are cacophonic | |
| Hypocrite, critic but deep inside you wish you had the pop hit | |
| It hurts don't it, a ReFugee come to your turf | |
| And take over the earth | |
| See my rhymes, are the type of fly rhymes | |
| That can only get down with my crew | |
| And if you try to take lines or bite rhymes | |
| We'll show you how the ReFugees do | |
| Yeah, yeah behold, as my odes, manifold on your rhymes | |
| Two MC's can't occupy the same space at the same time | |
| It's against the laws of physics | |
| So weep as your, 'Sweet Dreams' break up like Eurythmics | |
| Rap rejects my tape deck, ejects projectile | |
| Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile | |
| Many styles, more powerful than gamma rays | |
| My grammar pays, like Carlos Sanatana plays, 'Black Magic Woman' | |
| So while you fumin' I'm consumin' mango juice under Polaris | |
| You just embarrassed 'cause it's your, 'Last Tango in Paris' | |
| And even after all my logic and my theory | |
| I add a mother****er so you ig'nant niggaz hear me | |
| Crew remember take notes, as I sow my rap oats | |
| And for you bitin' zealots, here's a quote | |
| Ay, another MC lose his life tonight, ohh | |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? | |
| Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, aiy | |
| You can try but you can't divide the tribe | |
| These cats can't rap, Mr. Author I feel no Vibe, whatchu readin'? | |
| The magazine says the girl should have went solo | |
| The guys should stop rappin' vanish like Menudo | |
| Took it to the heart but every actor plays his part | |
| As long as someone was listenin', I knew it was a start | |
| For me to get my chance, grab my pen and revamp, bing | |
| Do a cameo while everybody do the dance | |
| Quick now 'cause you runnin' out of luck-a | |
| Playin' Mr. Big, 'I'm Gonna Get You Sucka' | |
| While you munchin' at your luncheon | |
| I'll be plannin' your assassination, bing | |
| Then hit you like The Dutchman | |
| I compress sound sets with my rap DBX | |
| Then drop vocals on my 456 Ampex | |
| Bring terror to the shop of horror | |
| As she cry, 'Mi amor,' the Phantom dies in the Opera | |
| And to the young'uns who carry gadgets | |
| And kill six days a week, then rest on the Sabbath, hold up, hold up | |
| Violence ain't necessary, unless you provoke me | |
| Then get buried like the great Mussolini | |
| And for you bitin' zealots, your rap styles are relics | |
| No matter who you, 'Damage', you're still a false, 'Prophet' | |
| Ay, another MC lose his life tonight, Lord | |
| I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why? | |
| Oh Lord, Father don't let him bury me, yeah |
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